Bruce Wayne didn't do small talk.
Or casual coffee meetups. Or, really, anything that involved daylight hours and social pleasantries. The man was a nocturnal creature by nature, more comfortable in the shadows than in a bright, trendy café with overpriced lattes and lo-fi jazz playing softly in the background.
But here he was, sitting in a corner booth with a black coffee in front of him, looking for all the world like Gotham's most charming billionaire. Which was exactly the point.
"Well, well," a familiar voice purred. "Bruce Wayne, voluntarily entering a coffee shop. Did hell freeze over, or did you just run out of expensive French press at the manor?"
Selina Kyle slid into the seat across from him, effortlessly elegant, her movements as smooth as silk. She was dressed in a sleek, all-black ensemble that somehow managed to be both effortlessly casual and designer-label expensive. A pair of sunglasses perched atop her head, and her green eyes practically sparkled with amusement.
Bruce smirked. "Didn't realize my coffee habits were of such interest to Gotham's former most-wanted."
"Former? Ouch." Selina placed a hand over her heart, mock-offended. "You wound me, Mr. Wayne. I prefer 'reformed'—or better yet, 'philanthropic entrepreneur'."
Bruce took a slow sip of his coffee, entirely unimpressed. "You stole my car last year."
"Borrowed."
"For three weeks."
"I gave it back."
"With the Batmobile's GPS tracker hacked."
Selina waved a dismissive hand. "Details."
Bruce sighed, setting his cup down. "I wanted to check in on the Lily Potter Foundation."
Selina tilted her head. "Right. Because this is totally a business meeting, not a thinly veiled attempt to keep tabs on me."
Bruce just raised an eyebrow, his default response when Selina was being particularly Selina.
She smirked. "Fine. If we're going to pretend this is all professional, let's get to it. The Foundation is doing well—better than expected, honestly. We've already helped a few hundred metahumans with job placements, legal aid, and medical assistance. Shadowflame set things up properly, so funding's solid."
Bruce studied her, fingers tapping lightly against his cup. "And you? How's it treating you?"
Selina's smirk softened, just a little. "It's... different." She shrugged, looking out the window. "Not exactly the kind of thing I pictured myself doing, but turns out, helping people isn't the worst way to spend my time."
"So you're enjoying it?"
She gave him a look. "Let's not get carried away. But yeah, it's... good."
Bruce nodded, like he'd expected that answer.
Selina sipped her cappuccino, then leaned forward, eyes glinting mischievously. "You know, if you wanted to see me, you could've just asked. No need to disguise it as business."
Bruce exhaled sharply. "Selina—"
"I mean, I get it. Billionaire playboys can't be too obvious with their affections. Bad for the brand. But if you wanted a date, Bruce, all you had to do was say so."
Bruce gave her a look so dry it could've turned her cappuccino to dust. "I'm checking on the Foundation. That's all."
Selina grinned. "Sure you are. And that totally explains why you've been staring at me like I'm about to pickpocket you."
"Old habits die hard."
She laughed, shaking her head. "You really don't trust anyone, do you?"
"I trust you," Bruce said evenly. "That's why I'm here."
For once, Selina didn't have a quip ready. She just looked at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a smirk tugged at her lips.
"Well, don't get all sentimental on me, Bats. I might start thinking you actually like me."
Bruce sighed. "Don't get used to it."
Selina winked. "Too late."
—
Bruce Wayne had many talents. Some were well-known—being a billionaire, throwing charity galas, looking good in a tux. Others were less public—mastering 127 martial arts, disappearing into the shadows like an urban legend, and, most importantly, manipulating a conversation so smoothly that you never realized you were being led exactly where he wanted.
Selina Kyle, unfortunately, had a talent for noticing.
Which was why, ten minutes into their little "friendly" coffee meeting, she leaned back in her chair, crossed one leg over the other, and gave him that look. The one that said, I see what you're doing, and it's adorable that you think I don't.
"Alright, Bats," she said, swirling her cappuccino lazily, "let's just skip to the part where you ask what you actually want to ask."
Bruce barely lifted an eyebrow. "I don't know what you mean."
Selina smirked. "Oh, please. First, you casually check in on the Foundation. Then you casually ask about my involvement. Now I can practically hear the gears grinding in that overcaffeinated Bat-brain of yours." She took a sip of her drink and arched an eyebrow. "So, let's just get it over with—what do you want to know about Shadowflame?"
Bruce didn't react. Outwardly. But internally, he filed away a mental note: Never try the slow-burn approach with Selina Kyle.
"What do you think of him?" he asked, keeping his tone as neutral as a billionaire playboy philanthropist could.
Selina hummed, tilting her head. "That's a loaded question."
"Humor me."
"You already have a file on him, don't you?" she countered, lazily stirring her coffee. "No—wait, files, plural. Psychological assessments, combat evaluations, emergency contingencies—"
Bruce didn't confirm or deny, which was basically the same as confirming.
Selina smirked. "Right. So why bother asking me?"
Bruce took a measured sip of his coffee. "Because I value your perspective."
Selina blinked. Then she laughed. "Wow. That was almost convincing."
Bruce sighed, shifting slightly. "Just answer the question, Selina."
"Fine," she said, setting her cup down. "If you're asking if I trust him, the answer is yes. If you're asking if I like him, also yes. Kid's got charm—polite, respectful, actually listens when people talk. Plus, he genuinely gives a damn about the people he's trying to help." She tilted her head slightly. "Not something you see every day in Gotham, or in the League, for that matter."
Bruce processed that. Selina didn't give compliments easily. If she was saying this, it wasn't just to mess with him.
"And?" he prompted.
Selina's smirk widened. "And he's dangerous as hell, obviously."
Now that got Bruce's attention.
"Explain."
Selina leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "Look, I don't have your whole paranoid detective thing—"
"Caution," Bruce corrected.
"Paranoia," she repeated sweetly, "but I do have instincts. And my instincts say Shadowflame is the kind of person you do not want to be on the wrong side of. The power's one thing, but it's how he carries himself. He's young, sure, but he's not reckless. Doesn't posture. Doesn't throw his weight around unless he has to. He knows exactly what he's capable of, and he doesn't need to prove it."
Bruce nodded slightly. That tracked with what he'd observed. Shadowflame—Charis Peverell—wasn't just powerful. He was disciplined. The League had taken him in when he was little more than a traumatized science experiment, but instead of breaking, he had adapted. Thrived.
Still, Bruce wasn't looking for just the good. "Weaknesses?"
Selina pursed her lips, considering. "He's got a temper. Keeps it on a tight leash, but it's there. I've seen it in his eyes when he's dealing with people who abuse their power."
That, too, tracked. Shadowflame had a particular disdain for corruption and cruelty. And while he operated with a level of restraint that Bruce found... acceptable, there were moments where the mask slipped. Moments where Bruce could almost see the edge of something darker beneath the surface.
Selina studied him. "You're not just worried about him being powerful. You're worried about what happens if he snaps."
Bruce didn't answer, but that was an answer in itself.
Selina chuckled. "You really are the worst kind of control freak, you know that?"
Bruce exhaled sharply. "Are you going to give me real insight, or just mock me?"
"Why not both?"
"Selina."
"Fine, fine." She stretched lazily, her cat-like smirk never fading. "Here's the thing: Shadowflame's the real deal. He believes in what he's doing, and he's not in it for the power trip. But…" She met Bruce's gaze, suddenly serious. "If you're asking whether he has a breaking point—whether there's a line that, once crossed, he might not come back from?"
Bruce held her gaze. "And?"
Selina leaned back, voice softer now. "I think if that day ever comes… you'd better hope you're not on the wrong side of it."
Bruce sat with that for a moment, letting the weight of her words settle.
Because as much as he trusted Shadowflame—and he did—he also knew that trust wasn't a substitute for preparation.
Which meant he still had work to do.
—
Bruce Wayne had made a lot of questionable decisions in his life.
Spending his nights dressed as a giant bat? Questionable.
Letting Lucius Fox hand him military-grade gadgets so he could beat up criminals in alleys? Extremely questionable.
Agreeing to coffee with Selina Kyle, knowing full well she would spend the entire time making fun of him? Possibly his worst decision yet.
Which was why he wasn't surprised when, halfway through her espresso, Selina leaned forward with that particular smirk that meant he was about to be mildly (or majorly) irritated.
"You know," she mused, twirling her spoon lazily between her fingers, "for a guy who spends his nights jumping off rooftops and scaring the living daylights out of criminals, you really do brood a lot."
Bruce exhaled slowly. "I do not brood."
Selina's smirk deepened. "Oh, sure. And I'm just an innocent girl who found herself in possession of a very expensive diamond necklace by accident."
Bruce didn't even blink. "You told the cops it was your grandmother's."
She sighed dramatically. "Well, one of my grandmothers probably owned one just like it. It was a tribute, really."
Bruce shook his head and stood, straightening his jacket. He slid a generous tip onto the table because, unlike some people, he believed in common decency.
Selina, of course, noticed. "A twenty percent tip? Wow, Bruce. Living dangerously today."
"It's polite," he said evenly.
"It's adorable," she corrected, grinning. "I mean, just when I think I've got you figured out—you go and prove you're Gotham's least threatening billionaire."
Bruce arched a brow. "Least threatening?"
Selina nodded. "Oh, definitely. Lex Luthor radiates 'I might vaporize you for fun.' Oswald Cobblepot has that 'I definitely run an illegal empire' vibe. You? You give off 'I will write a strongly worded letter to the Gotham Gazette' energy."
Bruce sighed again and reached for his coat. "I have to go."
Selina's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Oh, I know. Your chauffeur is waiting."
Bruce didn't react, but Selina knew—knew—she'd hit a nerve because his jaw tightened just a fraction.
Selina loved this part.
Because no matter how many death-defying stunts Batman pulled, no matter how many criminals he sent running in fear—at the end of the day, he still got chauffeured home like a rich kid being picked up from private school.
And the fact that his chauffeur was Alfred Pennyworth? That was just chef's kiss levels of irony.
As they stepped outside, the cold Gotham air wrapped around them. The sleek black Bentley was already pulling up to the curb, Alfred at the wheel, as composed as ever.
Selina grinned. "Come on, Bruce. Do you even see how ridiculous this is? The great Dark Knight—scourge of criminals, Gotham's legendary vigilante—can't even drive himself home?"
Bruce, to his credit, didn't flinch. "I have a car."
Selina tilted her head. "Oh, you mean the Batmobile? The jet-powered tank you park in a cave? Yeah, that doesn't count. I meant a regular car. One you drive yourself—without weapons, or jet engines, or, I don't know, missile launchers."
Bruce said nothing.
Selina let out a delighted laugh. "That's what I thought."
The Bentley came to a smooth stop. The driver's window rolled down, revealing Alfred Pennyworth, looking as impeccable as ever.
"Good evening, Miss Kyle," Alfred greeted, his tone polite but with that particular twinkle in his eye. "I trust Master Wayne has been adequately entertained?"
Selina beamed. "Oh, absolutely, Alfred. You know, I was just telling him how hilarious it is that Batman needs a chauffeur."
Alfred didn't miss a beat. "Master Wayne prefers to use his energy wisely."
Selina gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "Alfred! Are you actually defending him?"
"Merely stating facts, miss." Alfred's expression remained neutral, but Bruce knew he was enjoying this just a little too much.
Selina leaned in conspiratorially. "Be honest, Alfred. Have you ever let him drive himself anywhere?"
Alfred pretended to think about it. "Once, when he was sixteen. We are still paying off the damages."
Selina cackled. "Oh, I knew it!"
Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Are you done?"
Selina tapped a finger against her chin, considering. "Hmm. Nope. I think I'll be making fun of this forever."
"Of course you will."
Alfred, wisely, chose not to comment. Instead, he simply stepped out and opened the back door, waiting for Bruce to get in.
Selina leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, teasing whisper. "See you around, Bats. Try not to overthink everything before bedtime, yeah?"
Bruce shot her a look, the kind that said I am a grown man with serious responsibilities and will absolutely not overthink this entire conversation for the next two hours.
Then he slid into the car.
As the Bentley pulled away, Selina watched them go, shaking her head in pure amusement.
Because no matter how much Bruce Wayne tried to control everything, life always found a way to mess with him.
And honestly? It was so much fun to watch.
—
The Bentley hummed along Gotham's dark streets, slicing through the night like a stealthy predator. Inside, Alfred was the picture of calm, navigating the traffic with the sort of precision that could only come from decades of experience. Bruce Wayne, on the other hand, was sitting beside him looking like a man who was definitely not thinking about Selina Kyle.
And, of course, Alfred knew better.
"Enjoy your evening, sir?" Alfred asked, his voice smooth, like he was talking about the weather—when we all knew very well that it was definitely not the weather Bruce had been thinking about.
Bruce didn't even bother looking up. "It was coffee, Alfred. Not an evening."
"Ah, my mistake," Alfred replied, glancing at Bruce, his lips curling in that little half-smile. You know, the one that was practically a ticking time bomb of sarcasm. "I suppose, then, it's normal to look like a man who's just spent an evening being bested in conversation?"
Bruce didn't bite. Instead, he stared out the window, trying really hard not to hear Selina's voice echoing in his head: "Oh no! You mean you weren't charmed by my company? Devastating."
Alfred let the silence stretch out, comfortable but oh-so deliberate. He was really enjoying this. Finally, he broke the tension with that tone of his, the one he used when he was about to hit you with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. "And what, precisely, did you and Miss Kyle talk about this evening?"
Bruce sighed. "Nothing important."
"Mm-hmm," Alfred murmured, his eyes still fixed on the road but his smile growing more impish by the second. "And yet, you look like a man who's been thoroughly bested in conversation. Not one of those things you're usually known for, Master Wayne."
Bruce didn't dignify that with a response. Which, of course, was as good as a confession.
Alfred's voice grew more playful. "Let me guess, then," he began, dragging the words out like a pro. "She talked. You brooded. She teased. You deflected. And somewhere in there, she probably slipped in a wink or a hair flip, and you—being your usual charming self—acted like she didn't just set your brain on fire. And, at no point, did you acknowledge the fact that you two are, well, orbiting each other like a pair of lovesick teenagers with too much unresolved sexual tension."
Bruce didn't even flinch at the sexual tension line. Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. "Alfred—"
"—because, really, sir," Alfred continued, voice practically dripping with the unspoken truth, "it does make me wonder how much longer this agonizing dance of yours will go on. You can't keep pretending this is just some… coffee—when, in reality, it's basically a mini soap opera in the making."
Bruce shifted in his seat, but Alfred wasn't about to let him off the hook that easily.
"Not to mention," Alfred added, almost sing-song, "I do wonder when the inevitable will happen. When you finally admit that, perhaps, this chemistry between you and Miss Kyle isn't just coincidence... and you ask her out. Properly."
Bruce exhaled slowly, like he was releasing air through a straw. "We are not—"
"Oh, please." Alfred scoffed, cutting him off. "She flirts. You glower. She pokes. You sulk. You do realize, Master Wayne, that most people—normal people—this is called 'dating,' right? You've just managed to stretch it out for years, somehow. It's actually quite impressive."
Bruce rubbed his temples, wishing he could somehow vanish into the backseat. "It was coffee, Alfred."
"Ah, yes, the coffee," Alfred mused, eyes still on the road. "And yet, I distinctly remember a time when you would have avoided spending any amount of time discussing nothing important with someone who—let's be honest here—makes you brood more than usual. But do go on... please."
Bruce, obviously, didn't say anything. Because at this point, his silence was basically a loud confession.
Alfred sighed, shaking his head dramatically as he made a smooth lane change. "I suppose I should count my blessings, though. At least this time, Miss Kyle hasn't tried to kill you. Or blackmail you. Or use you in some grandiose scheme for world domination."
Bruce shot him a look. "She did steal my mother's pearls."
"Ah." Alfred made a thoughtful noise. "Yes, well, one might argue that she—ahem—borrowed them. Temporarily."
"Without permission," Bruce muttered darkly.
"Ah, but one might also argue that she returned them. Eventually." Alfred shot a look at him from the corner of his eye. "Quite charming, really."
Bruce narrowed his eyes. "You like her."
Alfred's lips twitched upward, but only just. "Oh, I adore her, sir. She has flair."
"Flair?" Bruce repeated, with an eyebrow raise, the incredulity dripping off his words.
"Yes," Alfred said, almost too smoothly. "Flair. Wit. A dreadful habit of keeping you on your toes—which, I might add, is something you desperately need."
Bruce shook his head. "She's reckless. Self-serving. Impossible to trust."
Alfred hummed thoughtfully. "Ah. And yet," he said, voice tinged with the slightest bit of triumph, "I couldn't help but notice you haven't told her to stay away. Not once."
Bruce looked out the window again, trying to ignore how right Alfred sounded.
"No threats," Alfred continued, now full-on smirking, "No ultimatums. No grand speeches about how this can never be. Just an awful lot of brooding and a very generous twenty-percent tip."
Bruce glared at him, more for the satisfaction Alfred seemed to be getting from this than the actual commentary. "I hate that you're enjoying this."
"Oh, on the contrary, Master Wayne," Alfred said, voice smooth as silk. "I am positively loving it."
Bruce let out a low sigh, leaning back against the leather seat, rubbing a hand across his forehead. "She's not…" He paused, unsure of how to finish the sentence without sounding like an idiot.
Alfred's eyebrow shot up. "Not what, sir?"
Bruce frowned, his mind racing. He wasn't sure what he was about to say, but he knew it was something big. Something that would mean more than just another round of coffee.
Selina wasn't safe—but then, neither was he. She wasn't predictable—but then, neither was his life. She wasn't easy—but then, nothing worth having ever was.
Alfred waited patiently.
Bruce exhaled deeply. "It's complicated."
"Funny thing about complicated," Alfred said, his voice light, but with an edge of knowing. "Some people, sir, spend their entire lives chasing it. Because, deep down, they prefer it to something simple."
Bruce didn't answer.
And neither of them said another word for the rest of the drive. Because, honestly, neither of them was ready for that conversation just yet.
—
The Bentley's tires crunched over the gravel driveway as it rolled up to Wayne Manor, the kind of sound that normally filled Bruce Wayne with a sense of calm. Gotham's usual hustle and bustle faded away as they approached the massive mansion, its looming silhouette standing stark against the dark night sky. The city might never sleep, but Wayne Manor did. Or, at least, that was the hope.
Alfred, always the picture of efficiency, slid the car into park, the soft hum of the engine cutting off. He glanced over at Bruce, who, predictably, wasn't exactly in a "let's unwind and enjoy the scenery" kind of mood. Bruce's face was a portrait of intense concentration—or maybe that was just his "I'm thinking about the best way to destroy Gotham's criminal underworld while secretly having a nervous breakdown" look. Either way, Alfred had seen it before.
"Master Wayne," Alfred said, pulling his gloves off with a quiet snap, "Shall we go inside, or is there something you'd like to broody-brood about in the car for another hour?"
Bruce blinked, and for a second, the intensity on his face cracked, revealing a flicker of amusement—or at least, a semblance of it. "Let's go," he said, his voice flat but somehow still a little too intense for casual conversation. He swung open the door, stepping out into the cool night air.
Alfred followed suit, closing the door with the kind of quiet care only he seemed to have mastered. Together, they made their way into the Manor, where the smell of old wood and expensive furniture greeted them like an old friend. Bruce, however, wasn't here for the scented candles and vintage wine. No, tonight, he was Batman. And that meant only one thing.
To the Batcave.
Down the winding staircase they went, each step the sound of inevitability. Alfred's footsteps were as light as ever, but Bruce's—well, they were heavy with the weight of someone who knew the world wasn't going to solve its problems without a little help from the dark side.
Once they reached the Batcave, Alfred immediately started tinkering with something that was likely going to explode. Bruce, meanwhile, was already in front of his computer, punching keys like the fate of the world depended on it. Which, to be fair, it usually did.
"Still not letting you sleep, are they?" Alfred asked, his voice a mix of concern and resignation. He didn't need to say who "they" were—Bruce knew. It was always the same. One particular hero was driving him nuts.
Bruce grunted. "It's not just sleep. It's this." He gestured to the screen, where the glowing face of Harry Potter (or, rather, the much more superhero-ish Shadowflame) stared back at him. The file had been up for hours, but the more Bruce read, the less sense it made. The guy had magic, sure. But he wasn't just a wizard. He was a powerhouse—like if Superman, Wonder Woman, and a phoenix had a weird, genetically engineered baby. No, Bruce wasn't scared—just incredibly frustrated.
"Still no weakness?" Alfred asked, leaning over his shoulder, his voice steady but with a touch of that dry humor he always used when Bruce was being a bit, well, Batman-y.
Bruce shook his head. "Nothing. Nth Metal weapons work on his magic, but that's a temporary fix. As for his other abilities—strength, durability—he's like Wonder Woman, but... stronger." He practically growled the last part, clearly annoyed by how little progress he'd made. "I don't even have a contingency for Diana, for crying out loud. How am I supposed to deal with this?"
Alfred raised an eyebrow and folded his arms. "You don't have a contingency plan for Wonder Woman? That's a bit worrying."
Bruce rolled his eyes. "I've got Superman for that one, Alfred. We tire her out, and we're golden. But Shadowflame... He's like the upgrade to Diana, and Superman isn't exactly available on a moment's notice."
Alfred didn't need to say anything. He just gave Bruce that look. You know the one—the one that says, "I'm going to pretend you know what you're doing, but deep down, I'm concerned."
"I know," Bruce muttered, running a hand through his hair. "But what if he decides to flip? I'm not even sure I can stop him. He's unpredictable." He turned back to the screen, tapping away at his keyboard like if he hit the right combination of keys, the mystery of Shadowflame would suddenly crack open like a piñata.
"You could try... understanding him," Alfred suggested after a long pause.
Bruce shot him a sideways glance. "I don't understand half of Gotham's rogues. Why would I waste my time with him?"
"Because, Master Wayne," Alfred said, like this was the most obvious thing in the world, "sometimes the solution isn't just about smashing them in the face with a Batarang. Sometimes it's about getting inside their heads. Understand their motives. Find out why they're doing what they're doing."
Bruce snorted. "Because that's always worked for me before. Just ask the Joker how well understanding him went."
Alfred raised a hand in a mock surrender. "Alright, you got me. But you might find a more... diplomatic approach helpful. Especially if you plan on being the one to take him down when the time comes."
Bruce glanced at the files again, narrowing his eyes. "I'm not planning on taking him down. I'm planning on preventing it."
"Same difference," Alfred shot back.
"I don't know how to deal with this," Bruce muttered, more to himself than anyone. "Every time I think I have a plan, it falls apart. And every time I think I understand Shadowflame... he does something that proves I don't."
Alfred walked over to the Batcomputer and adjusted a few dials. "Well, the files you've got are surface-level at best. You've never really dug deep into who he is, what motivates him, or why he's leading the younger generation of the Justice League. Maybe that's where you should start."
Bruce sighed heavily. "You think I should just... ask him?"
Alfred gave a knowing smile. "No. But maybe, just maybe, you could consider that there's more to him than meets the eye. He didn't just wake up one day and decide to be a hero. People like that, they always have an agenda."
Bruce leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. "Great. Now I have to figure out his agenda too."
"Exactly," Alfred said, the smile never leaving his face. "And don't forget, Master Wayne—you may not trust him, but trust is a two-way street."
Bruce didn't have a comeback for that. Instead, he clicked through another set of documents, his mind still racing. "I'll figure it out. I always do."
Alfred chuckled softly. "That's the problem, Master Wayne. You always think you have to do it alone."
Bruce didn't answer. Instead, he stared at the screen, letting the mystery of Shadowflame consume him. Because that's what Bruce Wayne did—he dug deep, he obsessed, and eventually, he cracked the code. Whether he liked it or not, that's what made him the Batman.
But somewhere in the back of his mind, Bruce couldn't help but wonder... was there a solution? Or was the answer to all of this something far more complicated than a simple fix?
But for now, it didn't matter. There was no time for doubt.
The game was on.
—
The Batcomputer was humming again. Alfred was beginning to suspect it was just showing off at this point. It had the kind of ominous, background-noise hum that suggested "I am processing Very Important Information, please do not disturb my brooding billionaire."
Bruce, of course, was completely absorbed, his face bathed in the eerie glow of his ever-expanding database of paranoia. On the screen, a file labeled Shadowflame scrolled past, detailing strength levels that should not be possible, flight speeds that defied physics, and energy outputs that would make a nuclear reactor blush.
Alfred folded his arms. "You do realize, Master Wayne, that most people—sane people, I might add—would consider it the height of absurdity to spend every waking moment plotting how to defeat someone who is, by all accounts, a hero?"
Bruce didn't even blink. "Sane people don't live in Gotham."
Alfred sighed. "Yes, well, sane people also don't forgo sleeping for three days straight, but I suppose you think that's just a minor technicality."
Still nothing. No acknowledgment. Just more scrolling, more data, more calculations.
"Have you eaten?" Alfred tried.
Bruce reached for the coffee next to him.
Alfred snatched it away.
Bruce scowled. "That was necessary."
"That was swill," Alfred corrected. "Honestly, sir, you spend all this time refining your body into a peak human condition, and then you fuel it with nothing but caffeine and poor life choices."
"I do not—"
Alfred held up Exhibit A: A crumpled protein bar wrapper, suspiciously empty.
Bruce cleared his throat and returned to glaring at his screen, which was currently displaying the words:
SHADOWFLAME: ANALYZING THREAT LEVEL…
CURRENT STATUS: "PLEASE DON'T ANGER THIS ONE."
Alfred sighed dramatically, the kind of sigh that could fill an entire room. "You're brooding again."
"I'm preparing," Bruce corrected.
"You're brooding," Alfred repeated. "Which, forgive me for saying, is hardly new. I daresay you'd be far more productive if you actually got some rest. Or, heaven forbid, had an actual conversation with someone who doesn't require a security clearance to access."
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "If you're suggesting therapy, we both know how that turned out last time."
Alfred gave him a pointed look. "I was actually referring to Miss Kyle."
Bruce froze. It was a subtle thing, but Alfred Pennyworth had been watching Bruce long enough to know all the subtle things.
Alfred smirked. "Ah. There it is."
"There's nothing there," Bruce muttered. "It's just—"
"—She's a former criminal, yes, I know," Alfred interrupted, waving a hand. "A reformed master thief, a compulsive flirt, entirely too good at getting under your skin—why, it's almost as if you have a type."
Bruce turned away from the screen just long enough to give Alfred the look.
Alfred, unfazed, carried on. "It's just that in all my years, I can't help but notice a pattern. You do enjoy surrounding yourself with people who are technically on the wrong side of the law."
Bruce exhaled slowly. "I work with criminals to reform them."
"Yes, and yet they seem to have more fun than you."
"I have plenty of fun."
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Name one instance of 'fun' you've had that didn't involve nearly dying."
Bruce opened his mouth.
Alfred crossed his arms.
Bruce closed his mouth.
Alfred smirked. "I rest my case."
Bruce turned back to his computer. "I'm not asking her out."
"Of course not," Alfred said. "That would require you to do something as human as pursuing a relationship."
Bruce gave him another look. "I have relationships."
"Oh yes, like that delightful one you have with Gotham's criminal underworld." Alfred nodded. "So fulfilling."
Bruce ran a hand down his face. "Are you done?"
"Not remotely."
"I'm not asking her out."
Alfred sighed, shaking his head. "Fine, fine. Ignore me. But mark my words, Master Wayne, one day you'll realize that this life isn't just about solving puzzles and punching criminals. And on that day, you might regret not having someone at your side."
Bruce didn't respond. He just kept his eyes on the screen, his mind running through contingency plans, battle scenarios, and one stubborn, unrelenting question:
How do you stop a man who's already unstoppable?
And somewhere, in the back of his mind, another question whispered—one that he refused to acknowledge.
And what if he's not the one you should be stopping?
Alfred turned toward the exit, already resigned to the fact that Bruce wasn't about to start making good decisions any time soon. "Right. Since you're clearly beyond saving, I'll go make some tea. Try not to collapse from exhaustion before I get back."
Bruce barely heard him.
Alfred paused at the threshold. "Oh, and sir?"
Bruce finally looked up.
Alfred smirked. "If you do ever decide to call Miss Kyle, do be sure to let me know. I'd hate to miss the moment Gotham's greatest detective finally solves the mystery of his own feelings."
Bruce groaned and went back to work.
Alfred chuckled as he walked away. One day.
---
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